


That kind of day

by kawuli



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, boys making friends, less than ideal coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 15:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18144191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawuli/pseuds/kawuli
Summary: When the door slammed open Dorian startled so badly his attempt at a chair collapsed sideways and dumped him onto the ground.He didn't spill his drink, so that was one consolation. And when he looked up to see who had entered, Commander Cullen looked so genuinely baffled that Dorian had to laugh. Cullen glared."Come in, come in," Dorian said, getting to his feet and gesturing around the room. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have cleaned up a bit."After the mess with his father, Dorian needs a break. And a drink. Or several.





	That kind of day

"Time to drink myself into a stupor--it's been that kind of day. Join me sometime, if you've a mind."

She wouldn't, he knew that. The Inquisitor couldn't sit in the tavern getting drunk with a Tevinter mage, the ramifications would be international. Poor girl. If anyone deserved to let her hair down...

But at least he didn't have much of a reputation to ruin. Bull and his men weren't particular about who they drank with, but there was always a distance. Krem might be a "Vint" like Dorian--but, well, he _wasn't_ like Dorian. Krem's speech was harsh, the kind of lower-class accent Dorian had been taught to sneer at, while Dorian's precise diction wouldn't slip no matter how much he drank--he would sound like a magister's son right up until he was too drunk to be coherent. 

Wouldn't Father be proud. 

He would not be proud of the company Dorian was keeping, or the way he kept glancing sidelong at The Iron Bull with _inappropriate_ curiosity. 

Dorian gave up on being sociable after the second drink didn't make it any easier. He slipped up the stairs with a bottle of something passable and a heavy-bottomed glass that was almost decent quality. As he got up, Bull looked over, studied him for a moment, then raised his glass a little, a wordless goodbye. 

He should go back to the library, or find a bed, or a distraction (or both). Self-pity was pathetic, indulging in maudlin reflection helped nothing and no one, and yet-- 

Well. It wasn't like the guards on their patrols would tell daddy on him, and anyone whose opinion he cared about should be asleep by now. He glanced toward the Inquisitor's quarters, and indeed, the windows were dark. 

The wind was cold though, how these Southerners managed was beyond him. Dorian pulled his cloak around him and shivered--then saw one of the half-destroyed gate towers and chuckled. There was a perfect place for a night of maudlin reflection.

There was even a mostly-intact chair, which Dorian leaned against the wall for stability, and a convenient window ledge for the bottle. He set the glass on his knee, twisting it one way and the other, watching the liquid inside swirl, then drained it in one go, refilled it. Maker's breath, what was he doing here? What were any of them hoping to accomplish in their windy, frozen, remote wreck of a castle?

When the door slammed open Dorian startled so badly his attempt at a chair collapsed sideways and dumped him onto the ground. 

He didn't spill his drink, so that was one consolation. And when he looked up to see who had entered, Commander Cullen looked so genuinely baffled that Dorian had to laugh. Cullen glared.

"Come in, come in," Dorian said, getting to his feet and gesturing around the room. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have cleaned up a bit."

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maker's breath," he muttered toward the remains of the roof. "What are you doing here?" 

"Drinking," Dorian said, "Care to join me?" 

"At this hour?" 

"What hour is that?" 

"I... quite late, I presume." 

Dorian looked more carefully. Cullen was sweating a little, even in the cold, even without his armor or his ridiculous furry mane, and his eyes were red-rimmed, shadows collecting underneath. He looked... "You look awful," Dorian said, without really meaning to. "Here, I think you need this more than I do." He handed the glass to Cullen, who looked at it suspiciously, but took it. 

"Pull up a... board?" Dorian said, finding a place to sit. He reached for the bottle on the windowsill, looked at it, shrugged, and drank. As if that had convinced him the drink wasn't secretly Tevinter blood magic poison, Cullen took a sip from the glass in his hand. His face relaxed a little from its usual scowl and he sighed and shifted wood planking until he too could sit with his back against the stone. 

"Thank you," Cullen said, then stopped as though he had no idea what should come next. 

"Glad to help," Dorian said, looking across the room. He turned at Cullen's huff of breath. Was that a smile? Some fraction of one, anyway.

"Always the gentleman," Cullen said, when he saw Dorian looking over. "Even at Maker knows what time of night."

Dorian shrugged. "It's a talent," he said, breezily. 

Cullen took a long breath and leaned his head back against the stone, chin tipped upward. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them as he drank. He didn't seem to be looking for anything to fill the silence. 

Dorian looked away, gazed up through the gaps in the roof to the brilliant stars overhead. For once _he_ didn't feel like filling the quiet with words, either. Maybe because if he asked Cullen what in the world he was doing wandering the battlements at this time of night, Cullen would in turn ask him, and Maker knew Dorian wasn't interested in examining that question. 

Finally, Cullen huffed out a breath and a short, rueful laugh. "Maker. What are we even doing here?"

Dorian raised an eyebrow. Could templars in the South read minds?

"Not...here," Cullen went on. "Skyhold. The Inquisition. All...this." He gestured vaguely with the hand that wasn't holding the glass.

Dorian shook his head. "Sometimes, I have no fucking idea." 

Cullen raised his glass in a mocking toast. "I'll drink to that," he said, and did. 

Dorian took a swig from the bottle (like a savage) and set it down, twisting the neck in his fingers. 

Finally, he looked up at Cullen. "We're following the Inquisitor," Dorian said. He almost wanted to take it back, the bald honesty that sounded trite spoken aloud. But it was true, just now. The trip to Redcliffe had left him shaken, enough so that Dorian didn't quite trust his own intentions. And yet he trusted the Inquisitor. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and not one Dorian intended to consider very carefully. He took another drink, then glanced over at Cullen.

Who was smiling quietly, looking down at his hands. It made him look years younger--and how old was the man, anyway? Not much older than himself, Dorian suspected, for all that he acted like he'd been born age 40, in full armor. "I suppose we are," Cullen said quietly, shyly pleased. He drained his glass. "I probably have to be at some void-taken meeting in a few hours," he said, in a more ordinary voice, getting stiffly to his feet. He reached over to hand the glass back to Dorian. "Thanks for the drink."

Dorian took the glass but stayed where he was. "Anytime, Cullen," he said. 

The Commander hesitated a moment, and Dorian wondered if he'd made a mistake. Then Cullen gave him a crooked half-smile, nodded, and walked away. 

Dorian watched him leave, then looked down at the bottle in one hand, glass in the other. He tipped the bottle into the glass, a last unimpressive splash, then tossed it back. 

Now he got up. He set the glass and the bottle neatly on the windowsill, picked his way across the rubbish-strewn floor, and went to find his bed.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [kawuli](http://kawuli.tumblr.com) (main) or [angstyporcupines](http://angstyporcupines.tumblr.com) (Dragon Age sideblog)


End file.
